


From Ethers Tragic (I am born again)

by IamShadow21



Series: From Ethers Tragic [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Eating, Food, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt Tony Stark, Identity, Iron Man 3 Compliant, Misunderstandings, No Arc Reactor, Not Captain America: The Winter Soldier Compliant, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Steve Feels, Steve Needs a Hug, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century, Super Soldier Serum, Surgery, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2018-02-21 03:50:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2453675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamShadow21/pseuds/IamShadow21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sketch on the table is half-finished and Steve has the sudden shivery feeling that he's standing in a dead man's shoes. The Steve Rogers who started that drawing doesn't exist any more. He put down his pencil and walked away, not knowing he'd never return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From Ethers Tragic (I am born again)

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote For I Am Crystal Chrome for the Reverse Bang earlier this year and I got some lovely feedback from people, the most constructive of which was that it felt unfinished. So after some time away, I have revisited this verse. 
> 
> **You will need to have read the first story** , or the premise will be super confusing, but basically, time-wise, this story slots in directly after the hospital scene in the first story ends. It's also Steve's perspective rather than Tony's. 
> 
> The tagging on this story remains slightly deceptive. The time travel tag in particular I am using because it's accurately reflective of the experiences of Tony and Steve, though actual time travel is not what has occurred.
> 
> I don't know yet whether I'll write more, but as I told people in the comments of the first story, I consider this an open universe with possibilities, so I will be leaving the series marked as incomplete in case of future works.

“Christ, I want a scotch,” Tony says.

“No scotch,” Pepper says. Instead, she places a little box with a button on it in Tony's hand.

Tony mashes it immediately. “You know I could hack this, easy, make the whole hospital experience slightly less shitty and more recreational,” Tony says, the lines on his face smoothing out a little. 

“But you won't,” Pepper says, her voice tolerant and amused but with a firm command behind it.

Tony blinks a little, as through trying to clear the haze. “No,” he agrees softly, and Pepper smiles.

A minute later, Tony's asleep.

“Okay, let's go,” Pepper says.

“But...” Steve protests. 

“His surgeon will be here in the next hour,” Pepper says. “Tony probably won't wake before they take him to pre-op and then he'll be under for however long the surgery and post-op recovery window is. Last time, it was about two days before he was properly conscious and remembered what had happened and why he was there between naps.”

“It don't feel right, leaving,” Steve admits.

“He's in safe hands,” Pepper assures him. “And you need to sleep in something that isn't a chair and eat something more substantial.”

The car that is waiting at the kerb for them is sleek and long and gleaming. Inside, it's almost as big as the room Steve had leased week-to-week on the waterfront, before he'd given in to Bucky's ribbing and agreed to move in with the Barneses.

“I guess Starks are still doing all right for themselves,” he says.

Pepper snorts indecorously. “Despite Tony's best efforts, yes,” she says.

Steve feels his lips press into a polite smile. Pepper glances up and her face becomes serious. “Tony is a contradiction. He's at once a selfish, spoiled man-child and the most generous benefactor imaginable. He'll throw money around like confetti, both out of the deepest sense of philanthropy and just because he has it and he can. He drives you crazy,” Pepper says earnestly, “and he will continue to drive you crazy, but since the Battle, you've respected him.”

“I'd say it doesn't sound like the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, but we've already established that's a sore point,” Steve says and Pepper grimaces.

“From what I know, Howard was a hard man to love,” Pepper says. “Tony's mother, Maria, was the one who made a name for herself championing charitable causes. Tony possesses their best traits and their worst. Remember that, before you read what other people have to say about him. And when you step into your apartment.”

“I have an apartment?” Steve asks.

*

Steve's apartment isn't just a couple of rooms and a bed. It's a whole floor at the top of Tony's Tower, with dizzying night views of the city out every side. There's so much space and room to move that Steve is overwhelmed by it. He can only imagine what it will be like once it's lit by sunlight as well as electricity.

Here and there, he sees something that verges on familiar – a piece of furniture that's constructed along lines he is accustomed to, a drawing that seems to be in his own hand, despite him having no memory of pencilling it – but they're all the stranger for being amidst so much that is alien to him. There's even a whole room with an easel and a drafting table, set up the way Steve thinks he'd do it if he'd ever had the money. The sketch on the table is half-finished and Steve has the sudden shivery feeling that he's standing in a dead man's shoes. The Steve Rogers who started that drawing doesn't exist any more. He put down his pencil and walked away, not knowing he'd never return.

Steve closes the door behind him and stamps down on the panicky urge to run, to leave.

There's nowhere to run to, after all.

The smooth white unit that seems to be this century's version of an icebox has little in it. An assortment of condiments, luridly coloured drinks and a handful of fruits and vegetables, some of which he doesn't even recognise.

“Captain Rogers?” JARVIS says, and Steve jumps.

“It's Steve,” he says. “Just Steve.”

“Sir,” JARVIS says, unwilling or unable to accept the informality. “Captain Rogers most often ate on the communal floor. The kitchen there is better stocked.”

“Thanks,” Steve says, then hesitates.

“I would be happy to escort you,” JARVIS says smoothly. Steve hears the elevator arrive at his floor with a gentle chime.

The communal floor is huge and open. Without the need for bedrooms, the space seems to be taken up with an enormous kitchen, living room, a dining area, and a deck open to the elements. The kitchen isn't any less futuristic than his own, but it is full of food. The shapes, forms and packaging are all different to what he's used to, but JARVIS is able to talk him through finding a tin of tomato soup, a loaf of bread and some butter. None of it tastes the same, but once JARVIS assures him anything he uses will be restocked in the morning, he doesn't feel too bad about eating his fill.

Once he's placed the dishes in the cabinet in the counter for washing on JARVIS's instruction, he heads back for the elevator. It chimes as he's walking up to it but he's not expecting it to be occupied when the doors open.

A man and a woman come strolling out, the man talking, the woman just listening. The man is so engaged he almost walks right into him.

“Who the fuck are... Holy shit,” the man says, taking a step back. 

“There's a lady present. Watch your tongue,” Steve says. 

The man snorts. “She's heard worse. She's _taught_ me worse,” he says with an enormous grin, like it's a joke. “When Fury called us in, I kinda thought it was April Fools, but wow. Seriously.” He eyes Steve like he's a curiosity in a tent and waves a hand in the air between them. “I never thought it was possible to cheat your way through Basic, but you're making me believe it.” 

Steve can feel his face flushing red, can feel his newly steady heart kick up its rhythm to a thud.

The man's solidly muscled with a much-broken nose and a swagger to his walk, hands loosely curled at his sides like he's always ready to make a fist. 

Steve's met dozens like him in back alleys all over New York. 

“You got a problem with me, then maybe we should step outside and talk about it,” Steve says, a dangerous edge to his voice.

The man cocks his head, a tiny smile still lingering on his lips. “What's wrong with right here, Cap?”

“Wouldn't want to make you cry in front of your girl,” Steve says tightly.

“She's not-” the man says. 

“I'm really not,” the woman says, striding past them, “but if you leave this floor or start throwing punches before I get back with popcorn, I'm kicking both your asses.”

The man shrugs and steps back, shoving his hands in his pockets. “She really will,” he says. “So, I'm Clint. I'm an asshole, but you probably already figured that out.” He grins, wicked and charming, and Steve gets a sudden stab of longing for Bucky. Clint holds out a hand and waggles his fingers until Steve takes it. “I'm pretty sure you get the urge to punch me at least once a week.”

“Seriously low-balling, there,” the woman says from the kitchen. There's a humming noise from a box on the wall and the snapping of exploding corn.

“Maybe a little,” Clint admits.

“I'm Steve,” Steve says. “Just Steve. Or Private Rogers, if you wanna be formal. I'm not a captain of anything.”

“You realise you're fighting the inevitable on that one, right?” Clint says.

Steve bites his lip and looks down at the floor. “It don't feel right taking credit for something I never did.”

“You did, though,” Clint says. 

Steve shakes his head a little helplessly.

“Bet you had plenty of guys come home who'd had their bell rung, with medals on their chest from some battlefield they just couldn't remember,” Clint says.

“Well, yeah,” Steve agrees.

“Would you take away their honours just because they don't remember?” Clint presses.

“Of course not,” Steve says. “But it's not-”

“Except it totally is,” Clint says. “And that science or magic or whatever made this happen instead of a head injury doesn't change that.”

“He's right,” the woman says, reappearing with a large bowl of fragrant popcorn. “He's self-serving, because nobody gets as many concussions as he does and he likes to think that's a mark of valour, but he's also right.”

“Maybe,” Steve says, unconvinced.

“I'm Natasha,” she says. 

She's stunning in a way that would have immediately caught his attention had Clint not been goading him from the second they stepped out of the elevator. Her hair falls in artful auburn curls over her shoulders and her lips are a deep blood red. She holds herself like Peggy held herself, sure and poised, and he's willing to bet she's every bit as competent.

“Steve,” he mumbles, awkwardly remembering a second later to stick out his hand for her to shake.

“Nice to meet you,” she says, and he blushes hard.

“Adorable,” Clint says.

Natasha stamps down on Clint's foot without breaking her eye contact or her handshake.

“We're about to watch a movie. You're welcome to join us,” she says.

“I... I don't want to intrude,” Steve says. He wants to leave, but the only place he can leave to is the giant apartment with the traces of that other Steve all over it. 

“It's called _Roman Holiday_ , you'll love it,” Natasha says. “Come on. I made enough for all of us.” She gives the bowl a shake, enough to rustle the kernels a little.

Steve does like it, but he drifts a time or three, until he opens his eyes to see Natasha spreading a blanket over him.

“I should...” he says before his words are swallowed by a yawn. 

“Sleep,” Natasha says, petting his shoulder through the blanket.

“'s rude,” Steve protests. 

“Clint's been snoring since we were ten minutes in,” she rightly points out.

“But-”

“Sleep,” she says firmly, her hand slipping up to cup his cheek. 

Steve's eyes slide shut, and for a moment, he can believe her manicured hand is his mother's, that her skin is dry and papery from harsh lye soap. He sighs and she tugs the blanket a little higher.

*

It seems only a few heartbeats later, he's opening his eyes to find the room awash with light.

“Good morning, sir,” JARVIS says. 

“What time is it?” he asks, because the sun looks alarmingly high.

“Ten-twenty am, sir.”

Steve pushes himself upright and rubs a hand over his face. He's sure he's not fit to be seen. “Is there a washstand somewhere on this floor?”

“There is a bathroom to your left, sir. I believe it has everything you require.”

The bathroom is enormous. It has a marble vanity and gold taps with hot and cold running water that comes out clear and fresh-smelling. There are toothbrushes (and toothpaste instead of powder) and little cakes of soap wrapped in beautiful tissue paper. The razors are different to what he's used to but he manages to shave his bristle with the lather in a can provided. When he's finished he still needs a clean shirt but he feels less of a disgrace than he had half an hour ago.

“Miss Potts wishes me to inform you that Mr Stark's surgery was successful, and that he has been moved to the Intensive Care Ward for post-operative care,” JARVIS says.

“Thanks,” Steve says.

“In addition, I believe Doctor Banner would like to speak with you at the earliest convenience,” JARVIS says.

“He one of the doctors at the hospital?” Steve asks.

“Doctor Banner is another member of the Avengers, along with yourself, Mr Stark, Mr Barton, Mr Odinson and Ms Romanova,” JARVIS explains. “Doctor Banner is currently in the workshop you found yourself in yesterday, attempting to determine the cause of the incident.”

“Ain't that awful dangerous?” Steve asks, alarmed.

“Doctor Banner has unique defences against harm,” JARVIS says, almost sounding amused. “He has also expressed the opinion that were he affected like yourself and Mr Stark, he would count it as a blessing.”

“Well, he shouldn't be poking around down there alone,” Steve says firmly.

“I am watching over Doctor Banner,” JARVIS says. 

“I'm sure you're doing your best, sir, but you weren't available yesterday when me and Tony came around,” Steve says. “Tony had to find the dial on the wall to make you work.”

“Indeed,” JARVIS says. “I have analysed the data from the surge that caused my systems to shut down yesterday and attempted to safeguard against such an insult in the future.”

“If it's all the same, I'd rather not rely on that,” Steve says. “Sorry.”

“No offence taken,” JARVIS says. “I would still calculate the current risk as minimal and venture to suggest that there is ample time for you to eat prior to seeking out Doctor Banner.”

Steve's traitorous stomach rumbles.

“Sure, okay,” Steve says. 

JARVIS talks him through finding juice, fruit, and some kind of compressed food in a shiny wrapper that he calls a protein bar.

Steve eats most of the box before he feels satisfied.

*

Doctor Banner is an unassuming looking man who seems to be comfortable moving through the wreckage of Tony's workshop without any protective gear whatsoever.

“Shouldn't you be wearing gloves, or something?” Steve asks as Bruce rights a desk.

Bruce shrugs. “You know how they said you've got a healing factor?” he asks.

Steve nods.

“I've got that, times about a hundred. I don't get sick,” he says. “Even if this room was flooded with residual radiation – which it isn't, I checked that first – it wouldn't hurt me.”

“You got a dose of Serum?” Steve asks.

“Something like that,” Bruce says. “But it's not stable. It... changes me, sometimes. Makes me into something strong and uncontrollable. There's blood on my hands because of that. So if I did get affected like you did, it'd only be a good thing. Tony'd disagree, but he's not the one who has to carry the weight of it. I am.”

“You needed to see me?” Steve prompts when Bruce lapses into silence.

“Yeah,” Bruce says. “I need to get new biometric readings from you.”

“They did some stuff already,” Steve says.

“This will be more in-depth, more precise. I know you're probably tired of getting stuck with things, but I'll keep it as brief and painless as I can,” Bruce assures him.

Up in a lab that's a muddle of clinical glass and chrome mixed with shabby furniture and bookshelves, Bruce takes blood and saliva samples, listens to Steve's heart and lungs, measures his weight and height. Besides the glowing screens of light in place of clipboards, it's pretty similar to what he had to do at each of his enlistment attempts and what he did later for Project Rebirth.

Bruce tries to explain while he's going along what he's doing and why, but it's miles above what Steve did back in school.

“Interested to know what the numbers are telling me?” Bruce says after Steve has read the bottom line of an eye chart and repeated back a string of unconnected words with ease.

“Shoot,” Steve says.

“You've not got the height or the bulk that you had the first time around, that's obvious. But your body's enhanced on a cellular level to about the same degree. Your hand-eye co-ordination's excellent, your visual acuity and memory are top notch. Your healing factor's working just as well as it always has. You been hungry?”

“Sure, but I'm kinda used to that,” Steve says. Basic was the first time in his life there hadn't been the reality hanging over his head that he was one sick-day away from losing his job and struggling to make ends meet again.

Bruce shakes his head. “Don't fight it. The healing factor burns a lot of fuel. There isn't the rationing or privation you remember. In other places, for other people? Sure. The future's not so utopian that we've fixed that. But the Tower is always fully stocked. All of us on the team have a higher food intake based on what we do and who we are. You, me, and Thor, we're built to need as much food as several people on any given day. Though they're not enhanced, the others need more, too. Clint puts away more food than I've ever seen a non-powered person eat, and he trains harder, too, to keep his bulk up. Which is the other side of the coin,” Bruce says. “You didn't get the Vita-rays in the right dosages to make you instantly big and strong. But the healing factor is stable. Your body is working incredibly well. You're healthy, and if you put the effort in, I don't see any medical reason you can't be strong. Not tall,” he clarifies with an apologetic smile, “but strong. You'll just have to work at it.”

“Well, you can't have everything,” Steve says. “And I'm not afraid of working hard.”

“Are you hungry now?” Bruce asks, and though it's a scandalously short time since Steve ate his quite substantial breakfast, he does feel kind of hollow.

“Yes,” he admits.

“Me, too. Let's eat,” Bruce says.

Bruce offers Steve the options of going out or staying in. 

Steve only hesitates for a moment, but Bruce immediately says, “Let's stay in. There's plenty upstairs.”

“We can go,” Steve protests.

“Tomorrow,” Bruce replies. 

Bruce empties what seems like half the contents of the communal fridge onto the counter and sets Steve to buttering a whole loaf of bread.

“We expecting company?” Steve asks.

Bruce shrugs. “Natasha and Clint might come by before we're finished. But otherwise, no,” Bruce says, chopping three whole huge tomatoes. “Consider this a lesson in how to eat for your enhanced metabolism.”

“It just seems...” Steve tries and fails to find a polite word for the huge spread of fresh, perfect food in front of them.

“Obscene?” Bruce asks.

Steve nods.

“Trust me, I get it. After the accident that made me, I spent a lot of time living rough in some of the poorest corners of the world. Places where clean water and fresh fruit were a fantasy. To come to the Tower after five years of _that_ , to this,” Bruce shakes his head. “But once I started eating more, things were easier. I didn't get sick anyway, but I could focus on my work more easily, and my mood... my mood was much better. And without my mood being better like that, I couldn't have stayed.”

Bruce snags a couple of buttered slices, two cold bacon rashers, four slices of tomato and a handful of lettuce, and assembles them into a sandwich. He mashes it flat with a press of one palm, then immediately begins to eat it.

“I need a lot more if I've had to fight, but I eat between three and five sandwiches for lunch on an average day,” he says once he's swallowed his first bite. He smirks at Steve's expression. “I've seen you eat seven, but it really does depend on energy output. Your body's smaller now, so you might only need as much as me, or a little less, or even more, if your body isn't quite as efficient as it was at getting the energy out of what you eat. Stuff like that'll take time to work out. Go on,” he says, pointing at the counter.

Steve takes a little bit of everything, layering it on until it's nearly spilling off the sides of the bread. Once the top slice is on, he presses down like Bruce had, so when he lifts it up, most of the fillings stay on the bread rather then falling out. Before he's expecting it, he's chewing on the final piece of crust and his hands are empty.

“Another?” Bruce asks. He's halfway through his second, a third already assembled at his elbow.

“I think so,” Steve says.

“You've got to listen to your body, find out what the new normal is. You said you had protein bars for breakfast?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, slapping a few slices of ham onto bread and shaking on some pepper.

“You know that one of those is usually enough for someone?” Bruce says casually.

Steve freezes where he is, halfway through laying down a slice of cheese. “But they're tiny!” he blurts.

“They're formulated to replace a meal – everything you need in a few bites. Which means they tend to be eaten by professional athletes and workaholics who never stop long enough to eat a proper breakfast. How many did you eat?” Bruce asks.

“Ah... four?” Steve admits.

“See, Clint might eat four of those in a _day_ if he's working out, or on a mission, or just can't be bothered to get off the sofa, but I think if he ate four one after the other, he'd be sick,” Bruce says with a smile.

“I'd what now?” Clint says. “Oooh, food.” 

“Power bars, maximum tolerances thereof,” Bruce says, starting to chew on his third sandwich.

“I ate six once, on a dare,” Clint says, putting a truly enormous amount of salami slices on the bread he's nabbed.

“Eating tournament rules,” Natasha says, climbing up onto a barstool and starting to assemble her own lunch. “If you puke, it doesn't count.”

Clint heaves a sigh. “Fine, then. Three. But I hadn't eaten in like, five days.”

Bruce smirks. “Steve ate four for breakfast.”

“And an apple,” Steve adds.

“And an apple,” Bruce confirms.

“And what, six hours later, you're onto your... what number sandwich?” Clint asks, looking genuinely impressed.

“Second,” Steve says, putting the top slice of bread on. “And it was four hours ago.” He shrugs. “I got a late start.”

“I mean, you always used to eat a lot, but that somehow made sense then,” Clint says, gesturing with his salami sandwich. “Now I'm just wondering where you're putting it all.”

“My ma always said I had hollow legs and holes in my feet,” Steve says. Clint chuckles. Steve nods at Bruce. “Guess if what you said's right, I can put it to some kind of use.” 

Bruce nods back. “He's got the Serum and the healing factor that goes with it, he's just not super-sized,” he explains to the others.

“Being small has its advantages,” Natasha says. “People tend to underestimate you, for one thing.”

“Well, that is something that's familiar to me,” Steve says dryly, and she grins.

“She's right, I used to be a squirt, before I hit about nineteen?” Clint muses. “Used to get my ass kicked on a regular basis before I bulked up, and I couldn't really do that before I was getting regular meals. I won more often that people expected me to, though.”

“What happened when you turned nineteen?” Steve asks.

“I got given a choice – work for SHIELD or break rocks at the federal penitentiary. Both offered three meals a day, but the fed pen wouldn't have let me keep my bow.” Clint grins and starts assembling another sandwich.

“Bow?” Steve asks, baffled.

“I'm a marksman, sniper, whatever you wanna call me. I can handle firearms fine, but archery's my preferred method,” Clint says. “It's quick, it's clean and it's quiet. Also, people don't tend to expect it, so I get a head-start on winning while they're running around confused.”

“He also still gets his ass kicked. A lot,” Natasha says, stealing a slice of tomato right off Clint's sandwich.

“Can't imagine why,” Steve says, and Clint nearly chokes.

*

Even with all of the modern things and styles around him – perhaps because of them – it's easy to forget that this world is real. It's easy to stumble through a conversation with Natasha while Clint laughs, to thank JARVIS for Pepper's latest update from the hospital, to help Bruce load all the leftovers from lunch back into the refrigerator and accept his invitation to dinner.

That all comes crashing down the moment Steve steps back into his apartment. Somehow, the collision of the future and the touches of the past, _his present_ , are what makes him sway under the shock of how alone he is.

“JARVIS?” he asks.

“Yes, sir?”

“Can you tell me about what happened? After Rebirth... the first time,” he asks, and he can hear the tremble in his words.

“I can summarise aloud, like this, or, if you prefer, you could use your tablet,” JARVIS suggests.

“Like that thing Tony had in the hospital? I got one of those?” Steve asks.

“Indeed, sir. I believe you will find it on the table to your left.”

The tablet on the side table is very different from the one Tony had played the film on. It's incredibly light and mostly transparent, but he finds the button to press to wake it up easily enough.

JARVIS guides him to something he calls a 'virtual exhibit', a museum's worth of stuff on the war. The circus strongman with his face did pretty much everything he'd dreamed of, back when he was forging his enlistment forms. He fought impossible odds, saved hundreds of lives and was instrumental in turning the tide of the war.

He'd also commanded the mission that got Bucky killed.

Steve sees that death date (1945, only two years after they'd exchanged farewells at the Exposition) and his ears start ringing. He forces himself to read to the end of the terse mission report, through a handful of statements by people he's never met or hardly knew, and then he barely makes it to his apartment's luxurious bathroom before he throws up every last bit of his lunch.

When he's done, he just sits there in a jumble of limbs, his cheek pressed against cold porcelain and his breathing ragged.

“Sir?” JARVIS asks. “Do you require assistance?” 

“No,” Steve says, his voice rough. 

“Doctor Banner is-”

“I'm fine,” he insists, though he feels anything but. “Could you send my apologies to Doctor Banner? I don't think I'll be joining him for dinner after all.”

“Of course,” JARVIS says. “I have done so.”

“Thanks,” Steve says.

He sits on the tile in silence until his legs feel strong enough to hold him.

Then, he goes back to the tablet.

He reads about the last few weeks of his life in the 20th century in a kind of haze. There's an accounting of the Commandos' last mission, a partial transcript of his parting words to Agent Carter, and a map plotting the route of the Valkyrie with the cities marked for death writ in red and the crash site labelled with a large X, like it indicated the location of buried treasure.

In a perverse way, that was true. Howard Stark certainly seemed to have hunted for the Valkyrie like it was.

Steve thinks of the cold eyes of the man who'd looked down on him in the capsule as though he was nothing more than a piece of the machine, not like he was looking a person at all, really. He wonders whether Howard searched because he was Steve's friend, as the archive claimed, or because the successful subject of Project Rebirth was a working prototype he was annoyed to have misplaced without replicating the results.

Steve wonders if Howard had found him there, frozen, like SHIELD did, whether he would have checked for signs of life or whether he would have just started dissecting him, mining his body for traces of the Serum the way in the same way he had mined for the vibranium in Captain America's shield.

The shield.

It'd been leaning against the wall inside the front door when he came back from lunch. He doesn't know who left it there but it had troubled him, even though it was unfamiliar to him. He'd let his eyes glide over it rather than lingering, and had chosen to delve into ancient history instead.

Now, he takes it in hand. It seems far too large, almost unwieldy, but it's light for its size, and the leather straps on the inside are glossy and smooth with handling and have obviously been carefully maintained. The whole thing has a gorgeous symmetry and aesthetic, a design that's simple and yet arresting at the same time. If he hadn't already been in possession of it, he's sure he'd covet it, or desire to touch it, just the once.

The strap around his forearm hangs loose and mostly empty when he gives in to temptation and slides his arm in, but the other fits neatly into his palm, his fingers pressing into the pre-existing grooves perfectly.

He's always had the feet and hands of a taller man, even though he'd never had the constitution to grow a body to match them. That he'd been changed so much, on the most fundamental level, and his hands had remained the same is somehow incredibly grounding, comforting.

Rather than reading in detail about his post-Revival time, which Tony had so inelegantly summarised, he ends up on a site called Youtube, watching films of himself throwing the shield, both in black and white in the war and in colour on the streets of New York. 

It doesn't look easy, but like he told Bruce, he's not afraid to work for it.

*

“I told JARVIS I wanted to hit something,” Steve says, standing in the doorway of the gym.

Clint and Natasha are both wearing scandalously little and what they are wearing seems to fit very tightly. As a contrast, all the clothing Steve could find in his closet that morning hangs on his slight frame like a circus tent.

“Well, you've come to the right place,” Clint says. “Does the something have to have a face, or would you prefer to take your frustrations out on a bag?”

“You volunteering?” Steve asks.

“He always volunteers to get hit in the face,” Natasha says.

“It's how I maintain my rugged good looks,” Clint says. “And sometimes, it's not so much that I volunteer to be hit, but that people volunteer to hit me without me getting a say in the matter.”

Steve cocks his head and looks at Clint as though assessing him. “It's a very tempting prospect. I can understand the impulse.”

Clint breaks into a flurry of giggles, swaying on his feet under the force of his own amusement. “Well, it's your lucky day,” he says. 

“You wouldn't mind?” Steve asks.

“Cap, it'd be an honour to be punched in the face by you,” Clint says. “Sorry. _Steve._ ”

Steve shuffles a little, rubs at the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, about that...” he says sheepishly.

“Hah! It was the shield, wasn't it?” Clint says, wagging a finger at Steve.

Steve shrugs, smiling bashfully.

“Unless it was the tights. In which case, I can totally hook you up. I made my own, in the circus,” Clint says.

Steve holds up a quelling hand. “I'll pass. For now, at least.” He shifts from foot to foot again and gestures at his body. “I know I ain't... what I was. I'm not the man you signed up to fight alongside.”

“You will be,” Natasha says. Her gaze pins him in place, steady and unwavering. “You're the same person, in every way that counts.”

“We'll always follow you, Cap,” Clint says.

“Thank you,” Steve says, his throat tight.

“Plus, this way, I might actually beat you at sparring, and I need something impressive to make me feel good about once I get too old and broken to do this shit,” Clint adds with a cheeky smile. “Gotta train you up first, though. Otherwise I'll just feel like even more of an asshole.”

“You're assuming I won't just knock you down from the start,” Steve says.

“Well, that'd be a different kinda honour,” Clint says. “First ass you kicked in the 21st century. Pretty sure I could get my name in Guinness World Records or something for that.”

“Or on the Notice Board in the break room on the Helicarrier,” Natasha cracks with a sly smile.

“Same thing,” Clint says with a shrug.

“Can we start now?” Steve asks.

“Captain,” Clint says. “It would be my genuine pleasure.”


End file.
